


Work in Progress

by DarkShadeless



Series: Long live the Emperor (whether he likes it or not) [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Imperial Administration, a WARNING tag, a day in the life of a reluctant head of state, his longsuffering apprentice, that should be a tag too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 12:45:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18992926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: It takes a little while before Yon has even unearthed the biggest spots of trouble.





	Work in Progress

**Author's Note:**

> This is short XD but it feels fine as it is so whatever.

 

 

_It takes Yon weeks before he catches up. Whole weeks, weeks he feels like he spends every waking moment scrambling to gain control of the disaster his life has become. The sheer amount of information he has to put into context is just too great. Every time he thinks he has gotten somewhere something new crops up._

_And then there are moments like this..._

 

 

In the semi-privacy of his armor, thank all the little gods, Yon fights a sudden and vivid influx of what feels suspiciously like _horror_.

How. Just. _How_ **.** How did it _come to this_? Who was _responsible_?

His council- His. This flaming wreckage is the administrative arm of _his_ _government_. The government of _his Empire_. Force preserve his sanity.

As befits an Emperor (suns and stars, why) he forces himself to breathe evenly. The ruler of a galactic power does not hyperventilate in public. His only outward sign of disturbance is the faint curl of his fingers over the arm of his throne.

Faint because he’s pretty sure if he allows himself more than that he’ll _break_ something and if he starts breaking things he has no idea when he will stop.

His council, those in attendance at least, throw their statuesque regent covert glances. They have learned to dread his silence. (They don’t _fear it_ quite yet. They’ll learn to do _that_ before the revision is through. Not quite yet, though.)

Yon breathes. Then he says, calmly as he can manage, “ _I beg your pardon_.”

Darth Mortis, who is learning quicker than the rest of his colleagues that their overlord prefers his answers promptly and to the point, makes a gesture that might be described as ‘helpless’ if it wasn’t for his choice in accessories. Pad your shoulders enough and any shrug looks like an act of war.

“In the aftermath of internal turmoil the Sphere of Imperial Intelligence has been disbanded, my lord.”

Yon doesn’t yell. He breathes. “Our entire intelligence department **_has been what_**.”

 

* * *

 

It’s. It’s one of those days. There have been a lot of those and there will be more. Entire months' worth of them.

Maybe he should take Jaesa up on the homeopathic calmative drops she keeps trying to smuggle into his tea, he can’t afford the luxury of a heart attack. There’s too much _work_.

 

“Master?”

Yon doesn't lift his head from his table. His apprentice has seen him in worse states, she can deal. “Yes, Jaesa.”

“Are you alright?”

'Alright' is a relative term. “I’m fine.”

“… that’s a lie, isn’t it.”

“Yes it is. Get me Zhorrid’s last reports, would you?”

A heartfelt sigh reaches his ears. “Of course, Master.”

"Cheeky."

"I learned from the best."

 

 


End file.
